


True Trans Soul Rebel

by gaychemistryclub



Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Trans Snafu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaychemistryclub/pseuds/gaychemistryclub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making out and punching things and French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gene and Snafu didn't share many classes in college. In fact, Gene hadn't expected them to share any classes until he'd been convinced to do a French minor alongside Snafu.

“C'mon, Eugene,” Snafu had drawled, sprawled across Gene's chest like a cat, “it'll be hilarious.”

Gene had regarded him with half-closed eyes. They'd both been drunk. Too drunk to have been making decisions like that. Too drunk to have been _thinking_ about making decisions like that.

“Go to sleep, Snaf.”

“Co faire?”

In lieu of a reply Gene had tangled his fingers in Snafu's hair, stroking absentmindedly as he considered the proposition. He couldn't remember how long they'd spent like that. Gene's only measure of time had been Snafu's quiet breaths. They'd lain in the dark for seconds, minutes, hours until Gene had finally mumbled:“fine, we'll do fuckin' French”.

Snafu's only response had been a triumphant huff of breath.

* * *

It turned out to be worth it, if only to make their professor watch helplessly as two Louisiana boys butchered her pride and joy. She had just about had a heart attack when, on the first day, Snafu had yelled “est oú ma _fucking_ pen, Eugene?”. Gene had responded with a cheerful “embrasse moi tchew”. The professor had responded with a choking sound. Poor soul.

It seemed that Snafu was on a mission to make this the worst year of her teaching career. Every Monday without fail he would rock up to their lecture in a brand new state of fucked up. A split lip one week, a black eye the next. Gene was the only one that didn't act surprised. After all, he was the one that usually ended up having to pull someone (or multiple someones) off of Snafu every Saturday night at the bar they had taken to frequenting.

It's where he finds himself right now, leaning against a table as he watches Snafu regard the goliath looming over him with the languid contempt that's become his trademark. Hands curled into fists at his sides, he seems completely undeterred by the fact that the man is bigger by at least half a foot and fifty pounds. Their confrontation had begun while Gene was trying to cajole the very cute and very queer guy living on the floor above into giving Gene his number, but now he listens in to the conversation.

“Tuat t'en grosse bueche,” Snafu drawls, “maybe you need someone to shut it for you.”

The giant blinks down at him, the first sentence having clearly gone over his head. Gene doesn't think he's ever seen Snafu look so disappointed in someone. Whatever he growls next is lost in the din of the bar, but it's enough to earn him a punch to the nose that he doesn't quite dodge.

 _Crazy sonofabitch_ Gene thinks, not without affection. He shoots the guy next to him (Leckie? Lucky?) an apologetic look before marching across the room.

* * *

Gene never asks what started that fight and Snafu never sees fit to tell him. It was probably something stupid. A knocked over drink, an offhand comment. He forgets about it within days. What he doesn't forget is Snafu's expression as Gene had forced the brawl apart. The wild eyed look that Snafu had given the other man just before Gene's arm had stopped him from lunging at his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the Against Me! song.
> 
> Co faire?: why?  
> Est oú ma fucking pen, Eugene?: where is my fucking pen, Eugene? (apparently it's 'oú est' in standard French, but 'est oú' is Cajun French)  
> Embrasse moi tchew: kiss my ass  
> Tuat t'en grosse bueche: you have a big mouth
> 
> Can you tell that I know extremely little about the American college system?


	2. Chapter 2

Snafu had changed his name six months after he turned sixteen.

He wished he'd done it earlier, still felt twinges of guilt that he hadn't marched to the parish court on the day of his sixteenth birthday. He knew that, logically, it didn't make him any less valid but he could never shake that nagging feeling that seemed to have wormed its way into his very bones.

He'd kept a list of names on his phone. Names of writers, musicians, and comic book characters. Names of actors and names that just sounded good to his ears. Eugene was the only one to ever see that list.

“If you call yourself Rudyard,” he had said, “I will never speak to you again.”

The lopsided grin plastered across his face had told Snafu he was just teasing, but he had aimed a kick to Gene's shins nonetheless.

“Pic kee toi, your name is literally _Eugene._ ”

“So what? There are loads of cool people called Eugene... Gene Roddenberry... Gene Simmons...”

Snafu had scoffed.

“You still have a shit name.”

“Not my fault. My parents chose it, but you're choosing yours.”

It was true. Snafu had anguished over it for months, getting so far as the doors of the parish court before second thoughts crept up on him. The list of names had never seemed to grow any smaller. Eventually, he had settled on Merriell, like his defan grandpa. It hadn't quite fit him at first, still sat a little awkward on the tongue. Eugene had promised he'd grow into it before howling with laughter.

“Fuckin' _Merriell._ ”

* * *

 

He never did grow into it, but sharing a name with his grandpa turned out be a blessing in disguise when introducing himself. The funny looks that strangers shot him were followed by understanding nods when he told them how his maman had named him in memory of her defan papa. In actual fact, the elder Merriell Shelton had passed when Snafu was five. But it wasn't like they needed to know that.

As per usual his maman had been delighted, his dad uncomfortable, and Snafu vaguely at peace. At least until the day that Eugene had decided it was time bestow a nickname upon him and Snafu had felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

“Merriell, Merriell, hey, _Mary!”_

He had frozen on the spot, bag tumbling from between his fingers and landing on the tarmac. He'd left it there and ran.

Eugene had called and texted him all through the evening, eventually bursting into his room at quarter past eleven with Snafu's maman nervously peering over his shoulder.

_“Fuck shit I'm so sorry I wasn't thinking I figured it was like a nickname I was being a couillon fuck-”_

“Passé.” Snafu had muttered, but he'd been too exhausted to put any real venom behind it.

He'd grown attached to his name, but it had started to feel wrong again. Like one of those sonofabitch jigsaw pieces that were two millimetres too big to fit the puzzle properly.

The second time someone had called him Mary, Snafu punched them in the face.

He'd gone straight to Eugene's after, wiping blood from his nose as he waited for the door to open. His hands, bruised and shaking from what he'd just done, were folded over his chest.

“You know what, Shelton?” Gene had chuckled as he'd cleaned up his face, “You're just a snafu waitin' to happen.”

It'd stuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pic kee toi: fuck you  
> Defan: 'sainted', what you refer to a deceased person as  
> Couillon: idiot  
> Passé: go away
> 
> If anyone wants talk with/yell at/cry over The Pacific headcannons with me, you can find me at gaychemistryclub.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Gene and Leckie don't work out.

Gene texts him a few days after Snafu vs. the Incredible Hulk under the pretense that his asshole roommate is kicking him out to write a paper and could he please just chill at Leckie's for a bit? He gets as far as pressing Leckie against the wall to kiss up his jaw before it hits him how wrong he feels. Something about them seems ill-matched and he can't put his finger on it. Blessedly, he doesn't have to. Leckie pulls away, blushing, and asks if he'd rather they _actually_ watch Netflix.

They spend the next few hours talking over _Inglorious_ _Basterds._ Gene discovers that Leckie is an English major, born in Philadelphia and raised in some New Jersey town he's never heard of.

“It's a few miles away from Manhattan. It's practically New York.”

“So you didn't get very far away, did you?” Gene snorts.

There's a ghost of a smile on Leckie's lips and Gene thinks he catches something bittersweet in his tone.

“No, I didn't.”

* * *

They lapse into a companionable silence as the film finishes, Gene idly scrolling through his phone while the credits play.

“Your roommate would've finished their paper by now, right? I mean if they're not done you're welcome to stay longer.”

Gene unsuccessfully disguises the strangled noise that comes out of his mouth as a coughing fit. He'd completely forgotten that he'd told Leckie that. It shows on his face.

Leckie, bless his soul, doesn't say anything about it.

“I'll see you around, then.” is what he says instead as he fiddles with the lock on his door, swearing under his breath until it twists to the left.

“See ya.” Gene smiles, walking out of the door and straight into the goliath from Saturday. Putain.

Gene isn't sure that he's ever experienced this level of fear in his life before. Sure, there was the time he'd found a spider of ungodly size in his duvet. That time he'd forgotten than an exam even existed, let alone to study for it. That time he was fourteen and his dad had found the bottle of shitty rum beneath his bed. Those events pale in comparison to this.

He finds himself praying that he isn't recognized. It's feasible: they'd all been drunk and Gene had been too busy trying to avoid being maimed by a snarling, kicking Snafu to make polite conversation. He almost finds his faith rekindled, until the man narrows his eyes and pokes him in the chest.

“Tell your friend,” he says with such authority that Gene feels like he should be saluting, “that he's one crazy motherfucker.”

It takes Gene ten full seconds to find his voice again. “Hey!” he calls after him, feeling far braver than he has any right to be. The man turns around and Gene briefly wonders why he's never thought to write a will.

“What did you say to Snafu to make him lose his shit like that?”

The pause that the goliath takes while considering his answer gives Gene just enough time to plan his escape back to Louisiana. New Orleans was too obvious. Baton Rouge? Nah. Lafayette? Still too big. Some backwater town in Tensas Parish? Perfect.

“Didn't say nothing to him,” the goliath snorts, “I was talking about Bruce Jenner and...”

Gene doesn't bother to listen to the rest. Oh, that guy had been _fucked_ from the moment he opened his mouth. From the moment the neurones in his caveman brain had started to conduct those particular impulses. Even given his size, Gene is surprised that he can still stand upright. He's watched Snafu stab someone with a plastic fork for less.

“... anyway, just tell him he's fucking insane, yeah?”

“I know, I know, he's motier foux.” Gene laughs nervously.

The goliath gives him a blank look and Gene uses this opportunity to dart past him and down the stairs.

His heartbeat doesn't return to normal for what feels like another hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putain: to the effect of 'son of a bitch'  
> Motier foux: half-crazy


	4. Chapter 4

Gene to Snafu, sent at 20:18: _That guy you tried to mutilate wants you to know that you're a crazy motherfucker_

Snafu to Gene, sent at 20:24: _do u kiss ur maman with that mouth?_

Gene to Snafu, sent at 20:26: _I kiss cute guys from upstairs with that mouth_

Snafu to Gene, sent at 20:28: _!!!!_

Snafu to Gene, sent at 20:29: _u have ten minutes to get to mine. idgaf if youve got shit to do_

* * *

“Hey, Sledgehamma, gimme my coat.” Snafu drawls, pushing himself off the bed with a drawn-out groan.

Sledge glares at him as though being asked for a spare kidney rather than the jacket slung over the back of his chair.

“Are you going to that godforsaken bar again?” he mutters over the top of his book.

“Why, Eugene,” Snafu gasps, faux-scandalised, “did a good Southern boy like you just take the Lord's name in vain?”

“Answer the question.”

“I'm goin' for a smoke.”

Sledge raises an eyebrow but acquiesces, passing him the beaten-up jacket. Snafu pats the pockets and, satisfied that both his cigarettes and his lighter were still in there somewhere, makes his way towards the door.

“Gene's comin' over, by the way.”

Sledge gives a nod without taking his eyes away from the page. Snafu is nearly out of the door when his roommate looks up with a sweet smile and informs him that if he's not back in twenty minutes he's getting locked out for the night.

* * *

Snafu spends a good thirty seconds fumbling with the unreasonably temperamental piece of plastic that the shopkeeper had the gall to call a lighter. It doesn't even has decency to look nice, its colour the hideous yellow lovechild of a safety vest and a glowstick. Snafu just about manages to light the Lucky Strike between his lips when Gene taps him on the shoulder.

“Putain!” Snafu yowls, the cigarette falling from his mouth. He watches mournfully as it lands straight into a puddle before fixing Gene with his best death glare.

“Je te déteste.”

“You love me really, mon chèr, ” Gene grins, plucking the pack of cigarettes from between Snafu's fingers, “ah, fuck, this is your last one.”

“We can share.”

Snafu throws him the lighter, waiting until Gene has passed him the cigarette before continuing.

“Ain't it a bit late for a post-coital smoke?”

To his surprise, Gene looks barely scandalised.

“Nothin' happened. I don't know. It felt kinda awkward, like... like making out with your brother or something.”

“How do you...? Actually, nah, I don't wanna hear it.”

Gene gives him a disgusted look, muttering something about turns of phrase and gesturing for Snafu to give him back the cigarette.

“You do know you can't keep telling people you had lung surgery if you smoke, right?”

Snafu takes an especially long drag just to spite him. The coughing fit makes it only a little regrettable.

“D'you have a better explanation?”

“You could just tell people you had top surgery, Snaf. This isn't Louisiana. No-one will try to lynch you.”

Snafu doesn't reply, taking another drag before passing the cigarette to Eugene. He's about to tell him to leave it, but Gene is already rambling.

“You'll be fine. They've got that LGBT group here, haven't they? You should start going. There'll be people who've come out here and they can give you advice. It would be so much easier for you if you didn't have to bullshit about everything.”

Snafu feels something stir in his chest. It's the same panic that grips him whenever his therapist tries to explain his own gender to him. Whenever someone gives him a funny look in the men's changing rooms. It's the same feeling that had hit him when Eugene had called him 'Mary', only a thousand times worse. His mouth is dry and his hands shake like it's the middle of winter and Gene is still talking.

“Fuck off.”

It doesn't feel like his voice belongs to him. It's too high pitched. Too girlish. Snafu can't breathe.

“Fuck off, Gene.” he repeats, taking a step back. They're out in the open but Snafu feels like a trapped animal. Gene recoils as though he's been slapped, looking almost as panicked as Snafu feels. He reaches out and it's too much. Snafu turns and runs.

When he finally comes back to his room, Sledge takes one look at his face and shuts his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Je te déteste: I hate you
> 
> I also own a yellow lighter and it's just as hideous as Snafu's.
> 
> I have a feeling he would smoke really cheap and awful cigarettes. I have no idea what brands fulfill this criteria and are also sold in America, but according to the internet Lucky Strikes are quite cheap in the US. If anyone who lives in the US has a better suggestion, it's welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

Gene spends the next day in a daze, wandering from one class to the next like a lost man. This wasn't the first time that something like this had happened, but it was the first time since they'd both gone to college. He's completely at loss for what to do.

His fingers itch to text Snafu again and he has to remind himself that the more he presses the issue the less likely Snafu is to talk to him in the next month. He settles on messaging his roommate on Facebook instead.

 _I haven't seen him since this morning_ , Sledge tells him ten minutes later, _I can let you know when he comes back, though?_

The most he can do is thank Sledge and plan an apology in his head on the off chance he runs into Snafu. The engineering building is on the other side of campus from Gene's lectures, so by the time he's trudging home he's not sure why he ever bothered.

He does see Leckie, however, struggling to open the door to their building as he juggles two bags and a nasty-looking textbook.

“You want some help?” Gene calls, jogging over. Not waiting for a reply he takes the book from Leckie just as it begins to slip out of his grip.

“Thanks.” Leckie pants, out of breath, letting them both into the hallway. Gene takes the other bag from him before he can protest.

“I'll help you carry these up.”

He makes to go back downstairs as soon as he's set Leckie's things down in his room, but the man's fingers close around his sleeve and pull him back.

“Are you alright?” Gene knows that he looks a mess. He'd barely slept the night before, unable to get Snafu's anguished expression out of his head. Leckie was the fourth person to ask him that today.

“I... yeah. I just said something really fuckin' stupid to a friend.”

“It happens to everyone.”

Leckie's smile is meant to be reassuring but it doesn't help. He's messed up in the past, but by this point Gene's known Snafu for too long to excuse fucking up this badly. Years ago, Snafu had corrected him a few times before politely letting Gene know that he loved him dearly, but if he said 'she' one more time someone would have to fish him out of the bayou.

“I should've known better.”

“Have you apologised?”

“I'm trying to. I messaged Snaf's roommate and he doesn't know where he is. I... I'm just worried about him.”

Leckie furrows his brow in thought for a few seconds.

“Snafu? He's the one you pulled out of that fight on Saturday, right?”

“Yeah.” Gene nods.

“Oh, I know who he is! He's friends with Lew. My old roommate.”

“Lew Juergens?”

“Yeah, do you know him?”

Gene knows _of_ him. He can't recall every saying more than five word to Lew, but he's seen him smoking outside of enough queer bars to guess that he and Snafu get on like a house on fire.

“I can text Lew, ask him he's seen Snafu.”

Leckie makes him stay long enough for Lew to reply, pressing a cup of tea into his hands while they wait.

 _He's at mine,_ comes the eventual reply, _pls tell gene I'm trying to talk sense into him._

“Hey,” Leckie says just before he leaves, “what was it that you said to Snafu? “

Gene pauses.

“I can't tell you. I'm sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like a horrible filler chapter and I don't like it.


	6. Chapter 6

Snafu had been formally introduced to Lew Juergens the morning he'd woken up in his bed with a splitting headache and a mouth like the Mojave desert.

“Did we...?” he had groaned from the cocoon of blankets. It had been his first weekend of college and his memory drew a blank at some point after his seventh shot of tequila.

Lew had given him a blank look and it took Snafu a full minute to realise he'd spoken in French.

“Nah,” Lew had chuckled after Snafu had repeated himself, “I just lived closest to the bar and I was heading home anyway. You threw up on my shoes.”

Snafu had pulled a duvet over his head to hide his burning face only to realise that he wasn't wearing his own clothes.

Oh, fuck. _Shit._

“Did you...?” he'd said, sticking his head out again and urgently pointing at the frayed sweatpants that were very much not the jeans he'd left his room in the night before.

“Yeah, sorry about that, but you'd managed to throw up all over yourself too. I can wash your clothes. It's no big deal.”

It had finally clicked when he had noticed Snafu's look of sheer terror.

“Oh, _right._ Don't worry, I didn't tell anyone.”

When Snafu had looked unconvinced, he'd added: “my little brother's trans so I'm not completely clueless.”

They were both Engineering majors and had taken to meeting up for smoke breaks in between lectures. Snafu learned that Lew was six years older than him. That he'd been in the Marines for three years before going to college. That his parents had been horrified to find out that both their kids were queerer than three-dollar bills and that their response had been (and still was) to spam them with every single LGBT article that they came across.

Lew had a Chicago accent and a crocodile grin and when he had bent down to kiss him he'd tasted of rum and coke and menthols. Snafu had kissed him back with fervour.

* * *

“You'll need to talk to him at some point, you know.”

Snafu doesn't reply, just takes a drag of his cigarette before flicking it over the ashtray that's next to him on the bed. Technically, he isn't allowed to smoke inside Lew's apartment, but the building is shitty enough for that particular rule to go unenforced.

“Leckie's been texting me all fucking day. Gene's looking for you. You can't just pretend he doesn't exist.”

Snafu takes another slow drag.

“Quit ignoring me, Snaf, you know I'm right.”

Snafu resists the urge to blow smoke in his face. Instead, he stubs out his cigarette and moves the ashtray to the floor, twisting around to face him the man lying supine next to him. Lew reaches up, runs his thumb across Snafu's collarbone.

“Situation normal, all fucked up.” Lew murmurs, trailing his fingers down the ever-present bruises on Snafu's arm, “whoever gave you your nickname definitely got that right.”

Snafu has already opened his mouth, half a dozen sharp retorts at the ready, but Lew's fingers tighten around his elbow in a vice grip and suddenly he's yanked down with an undignified screech.

“C'est sa couillon!”

“Whatever you say, darlin'.” Lew grins, aiming for Snafu's drawl and missing by at least two states. Snafu would act more offended if he could just stop laughing.

“Fuck me, that was awful.”

Lew raises an eyebrow and pulls him down for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'est sa couillon!: you're an idiot!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: one use of a transphobic slur

Leckie to Gene, sent at 19:44: _lew and snafu are going out tonight. snafu promised that he'll talk to u_

It feels far too cold for late October when Gene meets Leckie outside of their building. Gene feels a pang of homesickness when he has to zip up his jacket, stuffing his hands into pockets his as they make their way to the bar in their comfortable silence.

Lew waves them over when they come in, shivering, Leckie telling the cold to go fuck itself in a low voice.

“You just missed him,” he yells across the table, “on your left.”

Gene turns, searching for Snafu. He finds him with one hand on his drink and the other playing with someone's hair. Snafu stares up at the object of his affections through half-lidded eyes, an easy smile playing on his lips. 'The old Cajun charm' is what grandmeré would call it. 'Snafu being a shameless flirt' is what Gene goes with.

They watch him lean up to mutter something into the man's ear. Gene is too busy trying to insist to Lew that Snafu having to stand on his tiptoes isn't really as funny as he thinks it is to notice the look of repulsion that replaces the man's grin.

“Fuck off, tranny.” he hears the man say just before Snafu spits right into his face.

He's kicking and screaming, a litany of _“pic kee toi you cunt fuck you fuck you fuck you”_ spilling from his lips until he's caught in a choke hold. Gene watches him writhe out of the grip like a man possessed, giving twice as good as he gets. He hits with his fists and his knees and his elbows, clawing when he can't punch, kicking when his arms are wrenched behind him.

Gene gets there just as Snafu collapses against a table. He doesn't think he's ever hit anyone this hard in his life.

* * *

 

Eventually, there's an arm around his waist, pulling him up.

“Gene,” he hears, _“Gene.”_

Lew's hands are on his shoulders, steering him towards the door.

“Leckie's taken Snaf outside. Go. Talk to him.”

Snafu is alone when Gene stumbles out of the bar. Leckie must've gone back inside. He doesn't blame him. The cold had hit Gene like a slap to the face as soon as he stepped onto the street, a far cry away from humid Plaquemine.

Snafu looks far too young, blank-eyed and shivering as he digs through his pockets for his cigarettes. Gene wants to grab him by his shaking shoulders. Wants to wrap his arms around him and whisper apologies until the sun comes up, but he also doesn't want to get punched in the nose.

“Snafu.” he says and Snafu doesn't reply. Doesn't even acknowledge him. He's got the thousand-yard stare, his eyes glassy and unfocused. To hell with his nose, Gene thinks, and pulls him into an embrace.

“Snafu, Snafu, _Snafu,”_ he chants, like it's a prayer, a mantra, “listen to me, Snaf, you're alright. You're fine.” and finally, _finally_ Snafu looks up at him, blood trickling down from his nose.

Gene feels sixteen again, opening the door to Merriell Shelton, bruised and bloodied and terrified. Before all this. Before the drunken bar fights. Before Snafu had learned that sometimes the best way to stop some people from misgendering you was to hit them in the face with a folder.

Snafu stares. His eyes are too wide and too blue and Gene, God help him, wants to drown in them.

“C'mon,” he says instead, “lets go get you cleaned up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hitting someone in the face with a folder is actually an extremely efficient way to get them to stop misgendering you. I've tried. It worked wonderfully.
> 
> It's also just occurred to me that I forgot you can't drink it bars in the US until you're 21. Snaf and Gene are both 18. Ah.


	8. Chapter 8

Sledge isn't anywhere to be seen when they limp up into to their room. Probably for the best. Snafu doesn't think he could handle another lecture on why getting the shit beaten out of him was a Bad Idea.

“I'll be fine, chèr” he says, trying to shrug his jacket off without wincing. He's never seen Gene look so unconvinced in the ten years he's known him.

“D'you have a first aid kit?”

“We have one. We definitely have one,” he's slurring, his voice thick from Bacardi and that punch to his mouth, “I just don't know where Sledgehamma keeps it.”

“Fine. Just get me some tissues, then.”

“Alright, doc.” Snafu drawls, ignoring the noise of exasperation that Gene makes.

He throws him the box of tissues on Sledge's desk. Tries to steady himself as Gene begins to clean his face with far more force than necessary. It takes him a moment to realise that Gene's hands are shaking. He bites back a complaint, instead examining himself in the mirror. His sweat-soaked hair is plastered to his face there's still a smear of red on his cheek. Gene tries to wipe it away with unsteady hands and mutters “dépouille” under his breath.

“What does that make you, then?” Snafu drawls in response, grinning up at him. Gene isn't as worse for wear as Snafu, but there's a bruise forming beneath his eye and a cut on his lip. He doesn't smile back, just scrubs at his face until Snafu feels like he's being exfoliated.

“Thanks, yeah?” Snafu says after pause, swaying on his feet. He's can't tell if it's from the alcohol or from being thrown into a table or both. Gene's hands shoot out to steady him, making to grip his shoulders but instead pushing him back against the wall and somewhere in the confusion Snafu finds himself kissing him.

He feels almost as disoriented as when Leckie had pulled him up off the bar floor. Light-headed and dizzy. He needs to breathe but that involves not kissing Gene and not kissing Gene is currently at the top of his Shit To Avoid list. If he had such a list. He doesn't, but if he were to make one, then

Snafu's train of thought is broken off by Gene's hands coming to rest on his waist. They pull apart and Snafu draws in a shaky breath, an honest to God whimper escaping his lips when Gene's grip tightens.

“Is this okay?” Gene murmurs, making to tug his shirt up. Snafu nods and kisses him again.

* * *

There's an arm around him when he wakes up.

Snafu opens his eyes, groggy and disoriented, trying to make sense of where he is. The first thing he notices are his bruised knuckles. The second is Gene, still asleep, his bottom lip swollen and his eye not much better. Snafu traces the hickeys on his neck with feather-light fingers, pressing a kiss to his forehead before rolling over onto his back.

The third thing is Sledge's appalled expression from where he stands by the end of the bed.

Snafu flashes him a shit-eating grin and begins to nudge Gene awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dépouille: someone that's a mess
> 
> Bacardi tastes like it was invented by the devil. Snafu would definitely drink it.


End file.
